She finds a world that seems to be in the throws of war. Of course.

In particular, she finds herself at the edge of a farming village that has obviously been marched through, and quite recently. The roads are muddy and stamped with bootprints, the smell of smoke wafting from burnt fields, the buildings quiet and ramshackle, where they haven't outright collapsed. The sky is darkly overcast, and the air pregnant with soon-to-fall rain.

Well. There will be something helpful for her to do, then. Never a happy situation for the people who live here, but...

She turns toward the village, keeping her ears open for someone to talk to as she walks. Maybe a kid, there were usually children who needed reassuring after something like this.

The world is not quiet, but even as she makes her way into the town, it is disturbingly lacking the sounds of life. Insects remain, but no birds, no livestock, and certainly no people. There aren't bodies, at least not anywhere she checks. What human places that are not completely ruined show evidence having been evacuated rapidly.

At the very edge of her hearing, though, there is the warm rumble of distant marching feet. They are getting closer.

Strange. The quiet of the grave, without the usual inhabitants.

She looks for a clearing - a square or a crossroads to watch in and await an army. Her sword rests at her side, and she is growing more acutely aware of its weight.

(It is only a sword by a very generous definition - a slightly rusty, slightly jagged iron dagger, probably her oldest possession. It is the only blade she brought when she went out drinking before she stumbled out of the world. It will not intimidate anyone. At least, not until she makes a Cut.)

There is a central crossroad to the town, a stout square building squatting over one of its corners, one of the only that seems to have escaped whatever destruction rolled through this place. Notably, its door has a large triquetra carved into its door.

The sound of marching continues to grow, and soon the army becomes visible down one of the roads, four long columns of men. They're quite a strange sight, seemingly conscripts, countryfolk wearing ordinary clothes and wielding hunting rifles or farming equipment, but they march with total order, with no stragglers, no diversions.

If Than had lived in Throne or seen the Universal War, she might understand what this was. She didn't, so all she knows is that she has a sinking feeling she can't pinpoint.

When they get a block or so away, she calls out, "Hello! I am Mathangi Ten Meti, a lost traveler from a very distant land. May I speak to your commanding officer?"

The motley company stop in their tracks when Than speaks, but none reply. Instead, a strange and ephemeral sensation passes over her. Someone, or something at least, just brushed against her soul with a palpably acquisitive intent. 

The metaphorical fingers will come away scorched. This soul is a fire, a great black flame stoked with the violent breath of life and fueled with the terrible heat of will. Meti instructed that her student must be "so hot that even if your enemy should strike your head off, you shall continue to decapitate ten more men", and this her student Mathangi has done.

Her brain, as Meti instructed in the very same precept, is quite useless here - but this is not important. Her will reacts.

Her blade is in her hand, and a cut is in the air. Does she know what she is cutting? No. But she knows it is an attack.

And a blow struck without thought can cut God.

The burned fingers are sliced by a line of thin white flame that briefly ignites the sky.

The presence is justly banished, and the conscripts tense in the same moment as the strike, then quickly change direction, retreating without turning their backs to Mathangi. Those with rifles fire a quick volley in her direction, while those without form a rudimentary defensive line, rakes and scythes and shovels held out to ward against a charge (not that suck a maneuver means much in this particular scenario).

It is written, "You must never make ‘multiple’ cuts. Each must be singular in its beauty, no matter how many precede it." Still, when under attack, needs must.

The second cut is peremptory, a quick back-stroke, not the sky-burning display of the first. But it slices the bullets from the air, cutting them in two and halting their motion.

"Whoever you are, cease at once. And release those men, if you do not wish to make me your enemy."

No second volley comes, not yet at least, men reloading as they continue their wary retreat. No response is made. There is an anticipatory tension rising in the air.

Than is still tense herself. Her breath is measured and heavy, her flame burning high. Her senses look out at the world, seeing something more than the natural. A spirit is present here, and a powerful one.

"Ý̶͉S̵̜͂ ̴̜̈́Á̴̠T̷̹̅N̶̻͝ ̶̱͗V̶͖͛A̶̦͛R̴̤̋A̷̙͝Ṃ̷̛A̸͎̿ ̷̪͝P̷̋ͅR̷̝̾Ë̴̥S̷̭͘H̶̪̃," she mutters to herself. It does not do anything but help her focus, but she may be in the presence of one of the many faces of dead YISUN.

"I am Mathangi M̴̰͍͋̀A̴̰̰͙̿N̶̝͌͆̔T̵͓̕R̸̤̦̼̉̽̽Á̷̧͍̎̔, master of the principal art of Cutting," she declares to the probably-god. "I consider those men under my protection. Release them."

The men continue their retreat. They are by no means released from whatever spell holds them.

The same presence passes over her again, quickly but without weight. A feint.

Can she destroy it? Almost certainly. If she can find what it is. Would that damage the people it has in its grip? Probably. Maybe. Possibly.

The new touch... she could parry, again. Slice the fingers off that try to brush her. It is a problem that can be solved with violence... The only kind she can ever solve.

It's not a threat, though. Her Atum is bright and her senses sharp. It cannot change her.

"You are my enemy, then," she declares.

And... she could not put in words what she 'sees' of this spirit... but she would recognize it. She could find it, if she left.

...She should. She needs to know more. Thought leaves her only while cutting.

She draws her blade, and makes another esoteric cut, but one more familiar. Space parts at her will, as she aims for... the complement of this place. The other side, or somewhere this thing is attacking, or something like that. (The blade of want is not particular about putting your desire into words.)

Mathangi is now somewhere much colder, though not freezing. There's a group of four soldierly-dressed fellows, each with a little ribbon pinned to their breasts in a different color, huddled around a campfire, a couple of what might be camouflaged tents or crude huts squatting next to a rock outcrop. All four quickly turn to face her, the one with the green ribbon's eyes flickering with colorless light.

The one with the red ribbon feels the sharpest, though, and is the only one with a scabbard on his hip. He's also the first to speak up. "Who are you?" His voice is soft, lacking in command, but not weak.

Soldiers. Elite ones, if she's any judge - the small camp, and confidence not to ready weapons instantly, are both suggestive.

"Greetings. I am Mathangi M̸͚̬̭̃̐Ā̴̞͊N̶̫͛̾T̷̩́̒R̵̪͖̃̕A̸̼̳͌, from a very distant place. I believe I have become involved in your war."

She returns her knife to its sheath, without needing to look.

What tension there was immediately begins to fade as the soldiers turn their attention back to the simple meal cooking over the fire. Green-ribbon quips to red, "You recognize her, Ten? She looks like she moves through your circles."

The man, Ten presumably, replies. "Never seen her. Must not be the duel-sporting type."

"Fancy magic, though, just showing up like that." Blue-ribbon adds, scooting over a bit on the betarped log where she sits. "If you're part of our war then you must be on our side, so feel free to make yourself at home."

"Very confident, you are. I suppose that means the mind-bender has no allies?"

She's ignorant, here, which is a familiar feeling but not a pleasant one.

"'There is only the One God' is all that we've gotten out of any of their pawns." Yellow-ribbon offers.

"It's certainly made uniting everybody under the tetrarchs easier." Red adds, with unsubtle disdain.

"Just so." Green bats a foot at Red, before turning to Mathangi again. "We're the four's champions in this war, and given the One God's delightful tendency to put themself at the center of all their operations, we've been given the task of executing a decapitation. We're to travel light and fast, but I can see you're quite powerful, so if you intend to stand against them, I'm sure we could use your help."